The Eye of the Storm
by CaroH
Summary: Aramis is caught in a snowstorm.
1. Chapter 1

**The Eye of the Storm**

 **Chapter One**

Aramis shivered and pulled his cloak more tightly around his body. The weak winter sun had been overtaken by white clouds filled with the promise of snow and the daylight was rapidly waning. As evening approached the temperature, never higher than freezing, began to plummet. He had been late leaving the Viscount's estate as the man had insisted that he wait for a reply to the missive he had been delivering. Although he had fretted and paced the floor there had been nothing he could do to speed up the process. Now, with dusk only a few minutes away he was still at least two hours from the nearest inn.

He urged his horse into a canter even though he knew it would be short-lived. Once it became fully dark he would be reduced to walking the animal to avoid mishaps. The first flake of snow fell, a big white fluffy flake that was quickly joined by a myriad of others. Under other circumstances he could have admired the beauty of the scene. The hard packed dirt of the road quickly became covered by a carpet of white and the snow blanketed the leafless trees like the most delicate of lace shawls.

His shivering increased as a gust of wind blew from the north, driving the snow horizontally across his field of vision. He pulled back on the reins, slowing to a more sedate trot. His fingers began to feel numb, not even the heavy leather of his gloves being sufficient protection against the cold. His breath steamed in the air and there were ice crystals dancing at the edges of sight.

He could feel all his muscles tensing up in reaction to the bone deep chill. He unwound his scarf from his neck and wrapped it around his mouth. His hat was pulled as far down as he could manage and already the brim was becoming heavy with snow. He hunched his shoulders, relieved that his leather cloak at least prevented the moisture from reaching his body.

The land around him began to take on a dreamlike quality when viewed through the swirling snow. Visibility had been drastically reduced and it was becoming increasingly difficult to see the path. His horse tossed its head in irritation before slowing further. They were now travelling at no more than a walk making Aramis despair that he would ever find the comfort of the inn. His teeth began to chatter.

He tried thinking about a roaring fire but it made no difference to his rapidly chilling body. He knew he was holding the reins although he had now lost all feeling in his hands. Darkness came crashing down around him. There was no gentle transition from day to night. Any light that might have remained was completely subsumed by the steady fall of the snow.

His own mortality reared its head. Man couldn't compete against the unstoppable forces of nature and he was many leagues away from safety. He urged his horse to keep moving. The heat from the animal was the only thing mitigating the cold but even that was insignificant. The weather was extreme and he had never experienced its like before. The temperature continued to drop.

He lowered his head to gain some shelter from the wind which was searching out every crevice where it could find entry. They plodded forward into the teeth of the storm and he could feel that his horse was struggling. There was the sudden crack of a branch overburdened with snow and his horse, already spooked by the weather, lurched forward into an ungainly run. Aramis swore and clung on as best he could while the animal careened forward amongst the trees. Branches whipped by him, one of them catching him across the cheek. His skin was so numb that he had no idea if it had done any damage or not.

The snow was several inches deep on the ground making the footing treacherous. Aramis tried to haul back on the reins without success as the terrified animal continued its headlong flight. There was no warning. Between one heartbeat and the next the horse lost its balance, its front legs buckling. Aramis was flung over its head, crashing to the ground and impacting with a tree. He lay, winded, gasping for air.

It was the distressed whinnies from his horse that forced him to move. He rolled over, almost crying out when a sharp pain lanced across his right ankle. For a moment his vision became blurry as he fought down a surge of nausea. He pushed himself into a sitting position, the wet snow permeating his breeches. He didn't dare remove his boot to assess the extent of his injury. He couldn't feel any bone movement leading him to believe it was nothing more than a bad sprain than a break. However, in his present predicament either could be fatal.

His horse, he discovered, had fared worse. It was lying on the ground, its right foreleg obviously broken. Aramis crawled towards it and reached out to stroke its face. With tears freezing in his eyes he unclipped his pistol and held it against the animal's forehead. Trusting brown eyes regarded him pitifully and he had to close his own eyes before he pulled the trigger. The sound was almost immediately swallowed up by the dense snow and he fell back to lie on the deceptively soft mattress.

He didn't know how long he lay there before he came back to his senses. If he didn't move soon he would never rise again. He used a tree trunk for support as he climbed painfully to his feet. His ankle, he quickly established, could hold his weight although it was agony and he couldn't manage more than a shuffling walk. He looked around for a length of wood to use as a cane, eventually finding a gnarled branch lying half buried. Even with that his mobility was poor and his chances of reaching the inn before he froze to death non-existent. Nonetheless he began to move resolutely forward. He was a Musketeer and Musketeers never gave up hope.

TMTMTM

Athos, followed by Porthos and d'Artagnan rode through the archway leading to the garrison just as the snow started. They handed their horses over to the care of the stable boy and headed for the refectory.

"I wouldn't like to be outside in this," d'Artagnan said, shaking his head to dislodge the snowflakes that had settled there. "I hope Aramis has found shelter."

"Knowin' Aramis he's all tucked up in front of the fire with a flask of wine and a willin' serving girl on his lap." Porthos carried a jug of ale over to their table, leaving d'Artagnan to bring the tankards.

"That is undoubtedly true." Athos smiled at Serge who had limped through from the kitchen.

"Chicken stew tonight," Serge said.

"It will be very welcome." D'Artagnan sat and waited for Porthos to pour the ale. "The Palace is starting to look very festive."

"The King likes Christmas. He is worse than a child. All the nobles are expected to send him presents." Athos brushed a few stray flakes of snow from his shoulder.

"And we get the privilege of escortin' him to Notre Dame for Mass and then standin' around for hours while he hosts a ball," Porthos said gloomily. "I hate Christmas."

"It's not so bad." Athos drank deeply and sighed with contentment. "Serge always cooks us a special meal and Treville rotates the guards so that we get at least part of the day to ourselves."

"It will be strange," d'Artagnan said. "Not having Christmas with my family on the farm."

Seeing the youngster's downcast look Athos reached over and squeezed his shoulder. "We will do our best to make it a memorable day." He only vaguely remembered his first Christmas after Thomas' death. He had believed he'd lost everything…that his wife as well as his brother was dead. To the best of his recollection he had spent the day in a tavern on his own consuming copious amounts of cheap wine. He was determined that d'Artagnan wouldn't be left alone to brood on the loss of his father.

The somber mood was broken when Serge carried in a tray laden with bowls and a basket of bread. Athos nodded his thanks, inhaling the aroma of the stew. His mouth began to water in anticipation.

"What does anyone buy the King?" d'Artagnan asked. "He's got more than he could possibly ever want."

"Good question." Athos ate the first mouthful which was as good as he'd expected. "Horses, hounds, jewels. His particular favourite last year was a miniature portrait of himself set in a gold frame encrusted with diamonds. No-one could ever accuse him of humility."

"The year before that it was an Irish wolfhound. It was a magnificent animal," Porthos conceded. "One hell of a hunter it turned out to be."

D'Artagnan dipped a chunk of bread into his bowl. "He's a fortunate man."

"That's what comes of bein' born into the royal family. Wealth breeds wealth in my experience."

"That is certainly true."

"How did you celebrate Christmas in Pinon?" d'Artagnan asked.

Athos sat back, his thoughts flying to the only Christmas he had spent with Milady. It had been one of the happiest days of his life. She had gifted him with the locket he'd worn until recently with the pressed forget-me-not inside. It had been a reminder of an idyllic summer. Sensing that he was being watched by his friends he hurriedly tucked that memory away again. "We opened up the hall to the people and laid on a feast. It was the only day when they didn't work and we wanted to make it special for them. Life on the land is hard as you know only too well, d'Artagnan."

The door to the refectory opened to admit one of their fellow Musketeers. Porthos peered through the opening. "The storm's gettin' worse. It'll slow Aramis down."

"He should be no more than half a day's ride from Paris," Athos said. "Despite the weather I'm sure he'll be back tomorrow."

"I hope so. It isn't the same without him," Porthos said.

Athos finished his meal and pushed his bowl away. "It is rather quiet."

"Well I don't reckon we'll be goin' to a tavern tonight," Porthos said. "Who wants more ale? And I could get my cards if anyone fancies a game."

"We must first have your word that you won't cheat," Athos said. "It's one thing to take money from the Red Guard and quite another to take advantage of your friends."

"I'm offended," Porthos said, not looking in the least put out.

"Porthos."

"Alright, but I'm getting' better at it."

"That's what concerns me."

Porthos chuckled and went to collect his playing cards.

D'Artagnan grabbed another flask of ale and carried it back to the table. "He won't be able to help himself," he said.

Athos gave a long-suffering sigh. "I know."

D'Artagnan glanced towards the door. "Do you really think Aramis is alright? He had a lot of country to cover."

"Don't worry, d'Artagnan. Aramis is like a cat, always finding the perfect spot to curl up for the night. He'll be absolutely fine."

Tbc


	2. Chapter 2

**The Eye of the Storm**

 **Chapter Two**

Time ceased to have any meaning for Aramis as he bent into the wind and concentrated on taking one plodding step after another. He could feel his injured ankle swelling inside his boot and, if he hadn't been so cold and numb, he was sure the pain would have brought him to his knees. His eyes watered incessantly, making it hard to see his route. He was walking blindly in any event, the path thoroughly obstructed by the snow.

He was exhausted and starting to feel dizzy and uncoordinated. His lungs ached with the effort of breathing the bitterly cold air and he could feel his heart start to labour. He stumbled over a buried tree root and cried out as pain shot up his leg. He dug his walking stick deeply into the snow to steady himself while he waited for the black spots dancing before his eyes to disappear. His head began to ache.

Visibility had decreased to only a few feet so he almost collided with the shack before he saw it. It was a poor derelict structure but it had four walls and a roof. The door hung half off its hinges and it took more energy than he thought he had left to push it open. Inside it was like an oasis of calm after the noise of the wind. Aramis looked around. The room was no more than eight foot square with gaps in the walls where the wood had rotted away. Snow was drifting through holes in the roof although there were dry areas on the hard packed earth floor. He shoved hard at the door to close it as best he could. The still air was a welcome relief from the howling of the wind even if it was no warmer inside than out.

He knew that he needed to start a fire else the cold would kill him. The back wall was in a particularly bad way and he would have to sacrifice some of the rotten wood for the sake of warmth. He limped across the floor and began to tear at the wood. It was a pitiful amount of fuel but, if he could just get warm, he was sure his mind would start to work more clearly. His stomach began to rumble, reminding him that he had no food or water. He didn't even have anything he could use to melt some snow to drink. All his possessions had been in his saddlebags which he had quite forgotten about in his cold-induced confusion. He began to feel very tired.

His fingers were still numb so it took a frustratingly long time before the fire was lit. He huddled close to it, relishing the pitiful amount of warmth it provided. His shivering increased as he stripped off his gloves and held his hands close to the flames. Despite his cloak and heavy leathers his torso was soaked and he briefly considered removing his coat and shirt. Instead he pulled the cloak around his body hoping to generate enough body heat to dry his shirt. His skin was ice-cold to the touch and he could feel the wind searching out the crevices in the walls and sneaking into the room like a ghost.

He lay down, curling around the fire and willing his heart rate to return to normal. He could see his breath steaming in the frigid air and the pain in his lungs didn't seem to be in any hurry to abate. The fire burned down all too quickly without alleviating the bone-deep chill. Aramis kept it going a little longer with shards of wood pulled from the wall but he knew that destroying his only shelter would be a short-sighted move. Instead he sat in the corner furthest from the door and wrapped his arms around his body.

As the night wore on he became more and more drowsy, his eyelids drooping. From racing he could feel his heart rate slow. He stopped shivering and somewhere in the recesses of his mind he knew that was a bad thing. He could see the outside world through a wide crack in the wall. The snow continued to fall, covering the land in a thick white blanket that was ephemerally beautiful.

Eventually he slept, awakening confused and disorientated to find that the snow had finally stopped. Weak daylight now filtered into the shack. Every breath was an effort and his limbs felt leaden. He tried to force his legs to move so that he could stand up. The effort was almost beyond him. By leaning heavily against the wall he managed to get to his feet only to be struck by a wave of dizziness. Without any conscious will he slid back to the ground. He did not have the strength to try again and neither could he bring himself to care.

TMTMTM

When Athos arrived at the garrison just after dawn he found the yard buried under at least a foot of snow. Footprints already marred the pristine whiteness. The storm has passed, leaving the air crisp and clear. The cloudless sky gave the promise of a beautiful winter day. He slogged his slow way across to the refectory where he met Captain Treville.

"Training is cancelled," Treville said. "Pull together a work detail to clear the snow."

Athos nodded curtly and went inside to collect a bowl of porridge and some bread. He was soon joined by Porthos and d'Artagnan.

"We are on work duty today," he said. "Treville wants the yard cleared."

D'Artagnan groaned. "That'll take hours."

"Trust Aramis to miss all the hard work." Porthos blew on his porridge before eating.

"He should be back in time for the noon meal," Athos said. "He can help us in the afternoon."

After breakfast Athos rounded up half a dozen Musketeers. They collected shovels from the stores and set to work. It was back-breaking and utterly exhausting. The moisture laden snow was heavier than it looked. As the morning progressed they found they had to take more frequent and longer breaks. By the time lunch was served their muscles were burning from the effort and they still had almost half the yard left. They had piled the snow at each corner and the mounds were almost as high as a man and several feet wide at the base.

Athos slumped wearily in a chair, staring that the stew Serge had placed in front of him. He was famished but it was almost too much effort to lift the spoon. His muscles shook and his fingers tingled unpleasantly as his body warmed up. Sweat from his exertions trickled down his back.

"No sign of Aramis," Porthos said.

"The roads must be bad." Athos took his first mouthful, grateful for the heat that slid down into his stomach. "He'll probably come ambling in just as we finish for the day."

By mid-afternoon there was still no sign of their errant friend. Athos began to worry and sought out Treville. "Aramis has not returned yet."

Treville continued writing without looking up. "The weather will have made travel difficult. I'm sure he will be back before night falls."

"I request permission to go and look for him."

Treville laid down his pen and looked at his lieutenant. "Aramis can take care of himself."

"I'm sure that's true but what if he was caught outside when the storm hit?"

"Then he is likely lost to us," Treville said somberly.

"I refuse to believe that."

"Very well. You have twenty-four hours. Be mindful of the weather. There are more clouds gathering and I would not lose all my best men."

"Thank you." Athos hurried back to the yard where Porthos and d'Artagnan waited. "Saddle the horses. Aramis is overdue and we have been given leave to search for him."

"About time," Porthos grumbled. "Damn fool's obviously got himself in trouble again."

"We will make for the inn where he was supposed to spend the night. If he isn't there we can backtrack on his route." Athos settled his cloak more comfortably around his shoulders. "We will find him."

Their journey was slower than any of them liked and it was dusk before they arrived at the inn. When they entered they found the bar virtually empty. The inn-keeper came to greet them with a friendly smile.

"What can I get for you gentlemen? There's not many folks out and about today, what with the weather and all. Will you be needing rooms for the night?"

"We are looking for our friend. A Musketeer named Aramis. He is my height with dark hair and eyes." Athos removed his hat and placed it on a nearby table. "He was due to spend last night here."

"I haven't seen any Musketeers around these parts for weeks. We had no guests last night. Anyone with any sense stayed indoors. Can I get you some ale or wine maybe?"

"Unfortunately we must be on our way but I would be grateful if you could keep a room ready for us in case we need it." Fear for his friend settled in the pit of Athos' stomach. There was the possibility that Aramis had stayed at the manor house where he had been delivering the message but that was unlikely. Nobles rarely offered hospitality to messengers. It was much more likely that their friend had been caught in the storm and the fact that there was no sign of him did not bode well for his good health.

They returned to their horses and d'Artagnan gripped Athos' sleeve. "Do you think he's…?"

"Don't say it," Porthos growled. "Aramis is alright. We just need to find him."

"Let's be on our way, gentlemen," Athos said, swinging into his saddle. He looked at the sky. "I fear more snow is on the way." He led the way, trying not to think about Aramis lying frozen in the snow.

Tbc


	3. Chapter 3

**The Eye of the Storm**

 **Chapter Three**

They rode slowly for several hours before finding the dead horse. It was covered in a layer of snow but flies still buzzed around its face.

Athos dismounted. "It's Aramis'," he said, concern swamping him like a tidal wave. He hunkered down to get a closer look. "Single shot to the head so it must have been injured." He swiped a hand across the snow, brushing it away. "All his gear's still here."

"He can't have gone far on foot," Porthos said, worry clear in his voice. He and d'Artagnan both dismounted and looked around.

"The snow has covered all the tracks," d'Artagnan said in frustration.

"He'd have taken the easiest path." Athos pointed to a snow covered track that led between the trees. "I suggest we spread out and keep heading east. He will have been trying to reach the inn."

"Not much chance of that without a horse." D'Artagnan was well acquainted with storms of this magnitude. He and his father had always found more than a few dead animals in the aftermath and he wasn't holding out any real hope for Aramis' survival. The thought of his exuberant friend lying dead in the snow brought a lump to his throat.

They began to walk, leading their horses behind them. Athos soon lost sight of his companions as they hurried to cover as much ground as possible. It was a clear night. The snow clouds had deposited only a few flakes on the ground before dissipating. The wind still blew fiercely but it had veered from north to west, bringing less frigid air. From the angle of the moon, Athos reckoned it was close to eight o'clock. If Aramis was out here he had been exposed to the cold for more than twenty-four hours. It was an unsettling thought.

He had almost given up hope when he saw the ramshackle structure a few yards to his left. Looping the reins over a branch he strode forward. A mound of snow had piled up in front of the door. He waded through it and pushed. Because the door was hanging by one hinge it scraped across the ground, jerking to a halt when there was barely enough room for him to pass. He squeezed inside and looked around. Most of the room was in darkness but he could see the remnants of a fire in the centre of the small space.

"Aramis?" he called, starting to edge his way around the walls. His foot struck something soft and he dropped to his knees. "Aramis?" He could feel leather under his hands but no movement. He swore and stood up, backing towards the door. He needed light and he had to alert his friends. Once outside he drew his pistol and fired a single shot. "Over here," he yelled.

He rummaged in his saddlebags until he found a couple of candles which he carried inside. The air was bitterly cold and his frozen fingers were clumsy as he struck a spark with his flint. He had the candles lit by the time Porthos and d'Artagnan joined him.

"Hold these. He's over there." He thrust the candles at his friends and hurried back to where Aramis lay on the ground. His fingers sought the pulse point on Aramis' neck. "He's ice cold." There was no sign of a pulse so Athos pressed his hand to Aramis' chest, desperately seeking some sign that his brother was still alive. Panic began to set in before he felt the barest amount of movement. "He's breathing. It's very faint though. We have to warm him up. D'Artagnan, see if you can find wood for a fire. Porthos, get my bedroll. We need to get him off the cold ground.

Porthos and d'Artagnan placed the candles close to Aramis' lax body before going about their assigned tasks. Porthos returned first with the bedroll and several blankets. He spread them on the ground before helping Athos to manoeuver their unresponsive brother onto them.

Athos wrapped the blankets around Aramis' body. "His lips are blue. Once d'Artagnan gets a fire going we'll warm up some water and try to get him to drink."

"He needs body heat." Porthos sat on the ground and gently raised Aramis up until he was resting against his chest. His hands gripped his friend tightly.

D'Artagnan returned with an armful of wood. "It's damp but it should burn."

It took time for the flames to catch hold. Porthos shuffled closer to the fire, never relinquishing his grip. Aramis' head lolled back against his shoulder, his breath barely discernable. Athos went outside to fill a cup with snow. He set it down at the edge of the fire to melt, waiting until it was warmed through.

He knelt beside Porthos. "Hold his head up. Let's see if we can get him to drink." He held the cup to Aramis' lips and gently pried them open. He dribbled a thin stream into his mouth, most of it trickling out the sides. When he saw Aramis swallow he let out a shaky breath. "That's right, brother. Come on, Aramis, wake up."

Some of the water must have got caught in his throat because Aramis began to cough weakly. There was still no sign of him opening his eyes. Porthos unbuttoned Aramis' leathers and slipped a hand inside to massage his chest.

"He's still freezing."

"Warm cloths might help," d'Artagnan suggested.

They warmed more water and Athos ripped up his spare shirt, dipping the material in the liquid and then wringing it out. "Put these on the back of his neck and his chest," he instructed.

The temperature of Aramis' skin quickly leeched the warmth from the linen and Porthos handed it back so that it could be dunked again in the water. After about ten minutes Aramis gave a violent shudder.

"His breathin's improving," Porthos said.

Goose bumps appeared on Aramis' skin and he began to shiver. The movement was a welcome sight to the three friends.

"See if he'll drink some more," d'Artagnan said before going to fetch fresh snow.

This time Aramis cooperated, swallowing the warm liquid before groaning feebly. His head began to move from side to side and his tongue swiped his cracked lips. "M…Marsac?" he whispered. His eyes opened and he peered blearily ahead of him.

Athos' throat constricted. "No, Aramis. It's Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan. You're safe now."

A look of total confusion crossed Aramis' face and Athos knew what he was thinking. The combination of the snow and the cold had addled his mind, sending him back to another time when he had been alone and injured.

"Look at me," Athos said gently. "You were on a mission when you were caught in a snowstorm. We are only a half day's ride from Paris. We are not in Savoy and you are not alone. Something happened with your horse."

The shivering increased and Porthos clutched his friend even tighter to his chest. "We were worried that we'd lost you," he said.

"B…broke its leg," Aramis stammered. "Had…had to shoot it."

"What happened?" d'Artagnan leaned closer so that he could hear the response.

"Fell." Aramis burrowed back against Porthos, every inch of his body trembling. His eyelids started to droop again.

"Stay awake, Aramis," Athos said, tapping him gently on the cheek. "Are you hurt?"

"Ankle. Sprained, not broken."

"That's some good news. Can you stand? We can't stay here."

Porthos wriggled out from behind Aramis and stood up. Aramis sagged bonelessly now that his support had been removed. He hunched forward closer to the fire and sighed with pleasure as the heat engulfed him.

"Thought I was going to die here." His eyes rolled up and he collapsed before Porthos could catch him.

Tbc


	4. Chapter 4

This is the final chapter of this little tale which was inspired by the cold and snowy conditions here in Alberta, Canada. Thank you for reading. I wish each one of you a joyous Christmas season.

 **The Eye of the Storm**

 **Chapter Four**

"What the hell just happened?" Porthos dropped to his knees frantically feeling for a pulse. "It's racing," he said, looking up worriedly.

"The cold must have put a strain on his heart." Athos knelt at the other side. "We must be gentle with him. Any sudden shocks and he might have a seizure." He began to tap Aramis' cheeks, only stopping when he was rewarded with a weak groan.

Aramis' eyelids fluttered open, but he made no other voluntary movement. His shivering had increased in intensity.

"There you are." Athos smiled fondly. "We're going to help you get up now. We need to get you to the inn so that we can warm you up properly. You can ride with Porthos." Aramis looked at him in confusion and Athos gave his shoulder a reassuring pat. "We'll soon get you warm. Just hold on for us a while longer."

He and Porthos carefully manoeuvered Aramis to his feet. Aramis gasped when he put his weight on his injured ankle. Porthos slung one of Aramis' arms around his shoulders and took firm hold of his friend around the waist. Athos took up position on the other side.

"Lean on me," Porthos said. It was more of an order than a suggestion.

They made their slow way to the door while d'Artagnan darted ahead to ready Porthos' horse. Getting Aramis into the saddle was an unpleasant experience for all of them. When he put his foot in the stirrup he inevitably put more weight on his damaged ankle. He cried out in pain and sagged against Porthos. The horse shifted uneasily and d'Artagnan tightened his grip on the bridle.

Aramis had no strength to pull himself up so Porthos boosted him into the saddle and then mounted quickly behind him. Aramis swayed and Porthos snaked an arm around his waist, pulling him back to rest against his chest.

"I've got you," he said. "I won't let you fall."

"I know." Aramis' voice was pitifully weak.

Athos handed up the blankets which Porthos wrapped around his ailing brother's shoulders. Athos went back inside to douse the fire while Porthos waited impatiently. He was deeply concerned by the violent shudders wracking Aramis' body and the complete unresponsiveness of his friend.

They set off at a fast trot. Anything else would have been suicidal given the state of the path. Porthos arms began to tire from the effort to holding Aramis upright but it never occurred to him to complain or to abdicate his responsibility. This was his best friend and brother and he would do whatever was necessary to get him to safety. The sky had clouded over again and a light snow began to fall. Porthos swore silently to himself as it slowed their progress even further.

By the time the lights from the inn appeared in the distance Aramis was again unconscious. They pulled up in the yard and Athos hastily dismounted so that Porthos could lower his comatose burden to the ground.

"I'll see to the horses," d'Artagnan offered. "You two get Aramis inside."

As soon as Porthos' feet touched the ground he was reaching for Aramis. He gathered his friend up safely in his arms and strode towards the front door. Athos rushed ahead, calling for the innkeeper.

"We need a room, a fire and warming pans," Athos instructed when the man hurried forward.

"Top of the stairs on the right. I'll send my daughter up to light the fire and I'll have the warming pans ready in a few minutes."

"Good. Do you have any broth?"

"Yes. Leave everything to me."

Porthos headed for the stairs and shouldered his way into the room. He laid Aramis down on the bed, removed his cloak and began to unbutton his leathers. "We need to get these cold clothes off him." He removed Aramis' boots, wincing at the swelling around his friend's ankle. "That'll need strapped up. He won't be walkin' very far for the next couple of days." He stripped Aramis down to his shirt and underclothes before pulling the bedclothes up to his chin.

There was a knock at the door. When Athos answered he found a teenage girl standing in the hallway.

"My da told me to make a fire," she said, colouring slightly under Athos' stern gaze.

"Come in." Athos moved out of the way and she scurried in.

The fire was quickly lit but it did little to alleviate the damp cold of the room. There was a thin layer of ice on the inside of the windows, testament to the freezing temperature they were battling. Porthos had also stripped off his doublet and was lying in the bed with Aramis tucked up against his chest, sharing his body heat while they waited for the warming pans.

"It isn't making any difference," he said, fear for his brother colouring his words.

"We have to warm him up gradually," Athos said. "When we were young my brother Thomas fell into an icy lake. The doctor said that his body temperature had to be raised slowly for fear of overtaxing his heart. It took many hours." He remembered the fear that had gripped his heart when his brother disappeared under the water. Of course he, as eldest, had taken the blame for the mishap. Now he felt a similar fear for another brother, guilt once again nibbling at the edges of his mind. If they had only set out sooner.

"Stop blamin' yourself," Porthos said. "I know that look."

"I should have realised something was wrong."

"We," Porthos said with deliberate emphasis. "We had no reason to worry."

The innkeeper bustled into the room carrying two warming pans. Porthos got out of the way so that they could position one near Aramis' back and another close to his feet. The air was slowly warming as the fire took hold. Porthos tucked the covers snuggly around Aramis' body and stood back.

"He's white as a sheet," he said.

"We've done all we can. Now, we wait."

A bowl of broth arrived shortly afterwards and Athos set it by the fire to keep warm. D'Artagnan joined them, carrying a tray of cups and a bottle of wine.

"The innkeeper said he'll send up food for us." He uncorked the bottle and poured. "How is he?"

"Still unconscious. We should know more soon."

They had eaten their supper and cleaned away the dishes before there was any sound from the bed. After emitting a couple of low groans Aramis began to move sluggishly, turning from his side onto his back. In the light of the candles it was hard to tell if there was more colour in his face but it was clear that he was finally on the verge of waking up.

Athos left his chair and leaned over the bed. "Aramis? Can you hear me? How do you feel?"

"Cold," Aramis murmured, burrowing deeper under the covers. "My fingers and toes hurt." He opened his eyes and blinked a few times.

"That's good. It means the blood is starting to flow again. Do you think you could eat something?"

"Yes…maybe."

Porthos busied himself in plumping up the pillows and helping Aramis to sit up. The marksman grasped the blankets to his chest as if they were a lifeline. Fine tremors still ran through his body although the violent shivering had ceased. When Athos approached with the broth he ducked his head in embarrassment.

"I don't think I can hold the spoon," he admitted.

"That's not a problem." Athos sat on the side of the bed and dipped the spoon in the broth. "Take it steady," he said.

Aramis managed half the bowl before turning his head away. "That feels good…being warm inside."

"It will take time for your body to warm back up to its proper temperature," Athos cautioned. "Lie down and try to get some sleep." He removed the warming pans and handed them to d'Artagnan. "Can you get them refilled?" he asked.

"Of course."

Aramis snuggled down under the covers and regarded his brothers with sleepy eyes. "I owe you my life. I wouldn't have lasted another night."

"Nah. You're too stubborn to die," Porthos said.

"It appears God has granted me a Christmas miracle," Aramis said as his eyelids started to droop. "Thank you, my brothers."

"You're welcome." Athos pulled his chair closer to the bed and settled down to keep vigil until the morning. He was content in the knowledge that Aramis was recovering even if he didn't have the same belief in God's divine intervention. All that mattered was that they would be able to celebrate the feast of Christmas as a family.

The End


End file.
